


Dreaming of You

by inkedpenn



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), George Harrison (Musician), The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Bob is loud in bed change my mind, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shameless Smut, Sleepy Kisses, Smut, just..., sleepy handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 17:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18721690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedpenn/pseuds/inkedpenn
Summary: Bob wakes up in the middle of the night; George is there to help him.





	Dreaming of You

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He can still feel the vestiges of his dream coursing through him as he wakes up suddenly, his blood uncomfortably hot as it rushes through his veins. He chokes back a low moan as he feels his already hard cock accidentally grind against George's thigh- George, whose limbs are tangled up with Bob's as they lay beside each other in bed, every inch of their bodies pressed tightly together.

When he slowly peers out from under his heavy eyelids, he finds that George's deep brown eyes are already open and watching him. 

The room is still dark. Bob figures it can't be much later than three or four in the morning. 

"Did I wake you up?" Bob mumbles, still not yet fully awake himself.

"Don't worry about it, Bobby."

Bob hums, unsure, feeling a little bit bad about disturbing George's sleep, especially as he's hesitant to admit what woke him up in the first place. 

"Sorry, I didn't- _oh_ ," he cuts himself off as he feels George's hand move to palm him through the thin fabric of his boxers. God, he's so hard, and he feels somewhat absurd to be this affected by just a dream, but he can't help it. His hips jerk into George's hand, involuntarily seeking more friction. He feels his cheeks flush with some odd mixture of embarrassment and arousal, and he's glad that George can't see it through the darkness. 

George continues grinding his hand against Bob at a painfully leisurely pace, content to listen as Bob's little whimpers become increasingly desperate. George speeds up his movement, just barely but still; the whimpers are replaced by erratic, high-pitched moans, the friction is nearly too much, _finally_ enough, and he's thrusting down hard into George's hand because he's almost there, and he just needs a little bit more to-

Suddenly, all the sensations stop as George pulls away.

"Please," Bob cries out, nearly sobbing because he's so damn close and he needs it so badly, he's aching for relief and he feels like George is torturing him.

George cards the fingers of his unoccupied hand through Bob's hair, causing him to inhale sharply and bury his face into the crook of George's neck. His short fingernails scratch lightly at Bob's scalp, and needy whines fill the space between them as George's long fingers tug gently at his sensitive curls.

"Gonna take care of you Bobby, just wanna make you feel good first," George reassures him quietly before pausing for a moment, breath hot against Bob's ear.

"Then again, maybe I just love hearing all the pretty noises you make when you're like this," George whispers, before lowering his head to press open-mouthed kisses to Bob's sensitive skin. His lips leave behind a wet trail, wandering across all the little places that he knows drive Bob wild; he starts with firm kisses against _that_ spot just under Bob's jaw, sending a jolt of arousal through him and making his cock throb against George's hand. The firm kisses are quickly joined by the gentle scrape of teeth down the front of his throat, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that Bob groans and throws his head back onto the pillow. George pauses when he reaches Bob's prominent collarbones, considering something for a fraction of a second while looking up into hazy blue eyes. He quickly moves again, sucking hard at the delicate skin; Bob's hips twitch with the realization that until the mark eventually fades, every glance at the bruise staining his skin will be a reminder of George's lips on his body. He also knows that he's going to be recalling the sensation the next time he's alone and on that same desperate edge and it feels like damn near nothing is enough to push himself over that cliff. Bob's eyes press tightly shut as he unsuccessfully attempts to hold back a throaty moan, and he squirms uncomfortably at his embarrassingly obvious arousal. He still feels something like humiliation at the idea that George is seeing him like this, so desperate, so needy. 

Despite the shame which courses hotly through him, he lets himself take whatever relief George will give him. He's been so tense, touch-starved; and now the slightest bit of attention is enough to get him impossibly worked up. He's been so fucking stressed all the time recently, and his body won't allow him to relax for even just a moment of relief, and he's stuck as his frustration steadily builds to a breaking point.

He doesn't think about that, though, as George's hand retreats from it's place against the straining fabric at the front of his boxers, (where he realizes there is already a dark stain, and the flush on his cheeks deepens) and George teasingly strokes his thumb over the soft skin just under the elastic waistband. 

The agonizing barrier is quickly pulled off as Bob impatiently twitches his hips up in stuttering, shallow thrusts.

His cock is already flushed and leaking, and the clear fluid slicks the calloused skin of George's palm as he begins to build a slow rhythm. Bob is already panting heavily, and he has no control over his hips jerking forward erratically and trying to set a faster pace. George immediately stops the movement anyway, grabbing at Bob's thin waist with his free hand and wordlessly commanding him to be still. 

Something about that lack of control drives him wild, and he bites his lip as George continues his excruciatingly slow movements against Bob's cock. His thighs are trembling, every muscle taut with pleasure; it feels so damn good, but it's just _barely_ not enough to push him over the edge. 

" _Please_ , George," he begs again, tears of frustration beginning to form in corners of his eyes. George kisses him, and this time its soft and chaste, but even that just feels like more teasing to Bob. His breath is hot and uneven as he pants heavily against the skin of George's neck.

"I'm- um- fuck," he pauses as he can't stop a broken whine from escaping his lips, "I-I'm so fucking _close_ , Georgie," he pleads, voice strained, tears threatening to spill over as they catch in his eyelashes.

George's hand finally moves faster, sensing that Bob is at his limit as he looks into his hazy blue eyes. His rhythm becomes rougher, his long, deft fingers easily overwhelming Bob almost instantly; it only takes a few more strokes until Bob is an incoherent, stuttering mess, falling apart in George's arms.

"Please, George, I-I need- _mmm_ , god- p-please- _fuck_ -"

He comes with a final desperate whine, hips twitching weakly into George's hand as his body goes slack with pleasure. George keeps stroking him as he shudders through his orgasm, until he's spent and squirming from overstimulation.

He whimpers softly, and George gives him a moment to collect himself before speaking.

"Good?"

Bob nods erratically, still catching his breath.

"Told you I was gonna take care of you, didn't I?" George gently teases him, placing a chaste kiss to his cheek. Bob nods again, humming in agreement, and lets his eyelids fall shut as he gives in to the pleasant exhaustion of his post-orgasmic haze.

His eyes stay closed as George leaves to find a washcloth and cleans him off. He's worn out now, but in a good way, contentedly warm and sleepy. He lazily grabs at George's wrist, tugs him back to his side in bed. 

His mind is blissfully empty as he drifts back to sleep- and this time, there are no more dreams to interrupt him.


End file.
